by Shirley Jump
But he wouldn’t be a jerk with Alex. Wouldn’t go from zero to sixty in under thirty seconds.
With reluctance, Mack pulled back. His pulse thudded in his head. “Isn’t that enough reason that we should?”
Her face was flushed, her breath short. But her face had slipped into practical, no-nonsense territory. “Should what? Have a few romps in bed?”
Put that way, it all sounded so crass, so awful. He wanted more than that, much more, but the familiar fear raised its ugly head. Alex was right. He’d sucked at marriage. Seen how a well-intentioned relationship could go horribly wrong. The last thing he wanted was to tear down what he had with Alex.
If they became lovers and broke up, then he lost her as a friend, too—
That, Mack knew, would destroy him.
“You and I both know we can’t do that,” Alex said. Regret filled her delicate features, and a stone sank into Mack’s gut. “We couldn’t just stop at having sex. Maybe you can, but I can’t.”
He quirked a grin at her, hoping to defuse the tension between them with a little teasing. “You mean there’s more after sex? Something I’ve been missing all these years?”
“Be serious.”
She crossed away from him and refilled her mud pan with more joint compound, even though it was still nearly full. Was she avoiding the subject? Avoiding looking at him?
“And that,” she said with a sigh, her back to him, “is the problem with you, Mack. You’re never serious.”
“I can be.”
She turned around. “Are you sure about that?”
“What do you mean?”
“I know you better than anyone. You say you want one thing and you do another. Like last night.”
“What did I do wrong last night?”
“If you really wanted me, Mack, really wanted me, you would have kicked Deidre out the minute she knocked on the door. You would have told her to go home, told her you were involved with someone else.”
“I did get rid of her.”
“Twenty minutes later.”
“Deidre was determined to get her way, Alex. You don’t understand.”
She made a face. One he knew well because he’d seen it a hundred times. The one that spelled disappointment in him.
“I do understand. You’re a guy. You’re ruled by that tiny brain behind your zipper, as you told me the other day. I can’t fault you for that. But I’m also not going to be stupid enough to walk into a relationship where I can already see the writing on the wall.” She let out a sigh. “Listen, let’s be smart about this. We’ve been friends for a long time. I don’t want to ruin that, and neither do you. What we felt last night was loneliness, pure and simple. Leave it at that. I’m looking for Mr. Right, and, let’s face it”—her gaze met his, her green eyes soft with truth—“you’re not him.”
He wanted to tell her he’d be different, that he wouldn’t break her heart. But could he make that promise? Could he give Alex an iron-clad guarantee?
Given his track record?
“I think we’ve gotten as far as we can today,” Mack said.
And this time, he wasn’t talking about the job.
Chapter Fifteen
On her second visit to Theodora’s Tearoom, Alex had walked out with two lamps and a belly sloshing with too much tea, but no more information about Willow Clark than when she’d walked in. On her third visit, she ended up with a vase, a set of serving dishes and a mirror large enough to reflect the Hancock Tower. And still no inside information from Willow.
This time, Alex left her purse in the car.
“Why hello, Alex,” Willow said when the shop door tinkled.
Alex looked around but couldn’t see the author anywhere. How could she possibly know who had stepped inside? There had to be some kind of security mirror. “Yep, it’s me again.”
Bound and determined to get the story. No escaping me this time, lady.
“How did the lamps work out? And the mirror?”
Alex wandered down the cramped aisle, still looking for Willow. She fingered a porcelain pig, his gray snout turned toward the ceiling. He looked almost…cute. The silly animals were starting to grow on her. “I’ve only found a place for the vase so far. The house—”
“Isn’t ready for the rest,” Willow finished. “It will be, don’t worry.”
Then she swung around the corner, so fast, Alex let out a little squawk of surprise. She’d been right there the whole time? But that was impossible. Alex would have seen her, spied her through the aisle. But she’d seen nothing other than porcelain animals.
Alex shook it off. She was overly distracted today, that was all. She’d tossed and turned all night, trying to wrap her mind around what was going on between her and Mack. They’d made a mistake, shifting the dynamics of their relationship, and she wanted to rewind the clock, send them back into the world of platonic, even as another part of her wanted him to kiss her again.
Insane. Mack was all wrong for her—in a relationship sense. He’d made it clear he wanted nothing more than a good time. She’d been down that path with too many men to want to repeat it with the one man who meant something to her.
Something that tasted an awful lot like disappointment settled in Alex’s stomach. She shrugged off the thoughts and refocused on why she was standing in the odd little shop.
“That house will come together in its own good time,” Willow continued. She pushed a tendril of her long dark hair behind her ear, and leaned in, studying Alex’s face. “It needs…healing, doesn’t it?”
“It needs something.” Alex snorted.
“Healing,” Willow repeated. “That’s just the right word.”
How had the other woman known that? Were those claims of mind reading true? Or was Willow Clark just one more in a long line of kooks? Maybe doing this interview wasn’t such a good idea. Thus far, she hadn’t gotten much for her efforts. A few garage sale finds and some odd predictions more like horoscopes than reality. She could have gotten both from reading the City Times classifieds.
No, Alex decided. If she had to interview Willy Wonka, she’d do it, just to get away from Empire waists. And, a part of her still wanted to know. Know where Jensine had come from. How that character, the girl who had seemed so much like her, had sprung to life in this woman’s mind.
Maybe there was something to Willow Clark’s madness. Whatever it was, Alex prayed it wasn’t contagious.
“Miss Clark,” Alex said, “I really want to tell your story.”
“Why? I think yours is far more interesting.”
Alex scoffed. “Mine is the story everyone else has. Crappy childhood, but I grew up to be a well-adjusted adult.”
Willow took a step closer to Alex, her wide brown eyes capturing and studying Alex’s. “Did you?”
Heat rushed down Alex’s face. The tight, cramped aisle seemed to constrict, the animals that had been friendly before now seeming to stare at her, asking the same question, an army of a hundred all waiting expectantly for an answer.
Of course she had. Her life was on the right path now, or at least close enough to the right path that she could see the happy ending she wanted. She was fine. Just fine. “I’m here to talk about you.”
Willow thought about that for a second, then nodded. “Okay.”
Finally. Alex pulled the slim reporter’s notebook out of her back pocket, along with a pen, then reached for her minirecorder with the other hand.
“But—” Willow said, stopping Alex with a touch of her fingers, “only on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll tell you one fact about me for every fact you tell me about you.”
“What is this, Silence of the Lambs? I don’t need to—”
“Then I don’t need to do this interview.” Willow turned away, her rainbow-colored skirt poufing outward like a bell. “And, in case you forgot, you need me more than I need you. Your job is on the line here, not mine.”
And then Willow w
alked down the aisle, disappearing among the faux ficuses and painted pottery.
Damn. Alex hurried after Willow. No way would she let this story get away. She couldn’t go back to fashion. She’d sooner hang herself with the next pair of fishnet stockings to land on her desk than write one more column about what was hot in denim this year. “Miss Clark, wait.”
Willow kept going, disappearing into a back room that Alex hadn’t seen before.
Alex hesitated. Should she follow? Stay out here? What would Geraldo do?
Alex pushed on the door and slipped inside. “Miss Clark?” Alex rounded a corner and found Willow sitting behind a desk. An old-fashioned typewriter sat before her, a half-filled sheet of paper in the roller. Willow had turned in the chair, arms crossed over her chest, an expectant half smile on her face, as if she’d fully anticipated Alex would follow.
“First thing I’ll tell you,” she said, resting a loving, protective hand on the round keys of the Smith Corona, “is that I never stopped writing. I just stopped publishing.”
Alex’s breath caught. She didn’t move, afraid Willow would stop talking if she so much as breathed.
“Now it’s your turn.” Willow gestured to a second chair. “Tell me something about you.”
Alex slid into the battered armchair, its worn floral fabric accepting her body in a cushioned hug. “You’re a smart woman. Giving me something as enticing as that, and then stopping.”
“It’s called a hook, my dear. Oldest trick in the author’s handbook.” Willow grinned. “You want your story, and I want mine.”
“Why? Why do you care about me?”
Willow leaned forward, her eyes wide. She clasped her hands together in her lap. “I read something in you, Alex. Something that needs healing as much as your house does.”
Unexpected tears stung at the back of Alex’s eyes. She shook them off and shifted in the chair. “I’m fine.”
“Then why are you tearing out walls at the same time you’re building new ones? And I’m not just talking about the ones in that house, but the ones between you and the people who care about you.”
“How do you know about the construction I’m doing in the house?” Alex had told her only that she had moved into a new place, not that she was renovating.
A slow, secret smile took over Willow’s face. “I know a lot of things. And that, Alex, is also part of my story, so I can’t tell you any more.”
Alex sat in the chair, chewing on her bottom lip and debating. Willow waited, patience covering her Mona Lisa countenance. What good could come of opening these old wounds? They’d simply rip a hole in her heart, one she didn’t want.
But if she didn’t open up to Willow—a woman who had an uncanny ability to see through Alex—then she’d never get the story she needed. It’d be eye shadow and nail polish for the next zillion years.
Alex would find more chuckles in the obituary department.
“I’m tearing down the walls in the house because it has too many bad memories, and the place is in bad shape,” Alex said finally.
Willow arched a brow in question.
Alex waited. Silence, she had found, was her most powerful tool in an interview. People felt compelled to fill in conversational gaps. Silence made them squirm.
But not Willow. She just sat there, patient as a clam on a beach, the same smile on her face, as if the tables were turned and she was the one doing the interview, not the other way around.
Alex tapped her toe on the vinyl floor, measuring a cadence of impatience.
Willow crossed her hands in her lap with all the serenity of a sensei.
Alex shifted in her seat. She twisted her pen, spinning the cap around and around.
Willow didn’t move.
One minute ticked by. Two. Three. Five.
Willow remained as still as the porcelain rhinoceros on the shelf. Alex was tempted to check Willow for a pulse when she leaned forward and peered into Alex’s eyes.
“Is that all?”
“Well, no, of course,” Alex said. “But that’s all I wanted to say about my childhood. Trust me, my life really was that boring.”
“I have to say I’m quite disappointed.” She rose and crossed to the door. “I really thought you wanted my story more than that, Alex.”
Then Willow left the room, letting the door shut behind her with a finality that told Alex the interview was over.
Nothing bought a kiss like cookies.
“I always knew I loved you, but now I remember why.” Carolyn Kenner smiled, then bussed Mack’s cheek. “You are the sweetest boy ever.”
Mack chuckled. “Grandma, I’m not a boy.” He’d been calling Alex’s grandmother “Grandma” for as long as he could remember, even though they weren’t related. She’d been more family to him than his own grandparents some days, and he couldn’t imagine calling her anything else.
“Any man under fifty is a boy to me,” she said, then set the box of Windmill Cookies in the center of the table and headed for the stove. “Can I make you some tea?”
He made a face. “Tea?”
She laughed. “Okay, coffee it is. Black, right?”
“Is there another way to drink it?”
Carolyn filled a kettle with water, set it on a burner, then clicked on the stove. She bustled around the kitchen, getting out a teacup and a bag of tea for herself, along with a French press and a container of coffee for Mack. He sat back, enjoying the sunny atmosphere of the room. How he missed this sense of warmth, of home. Ever since his mother had left, the energy seemed to have drained from the Douglas kitchen on Pinewood Street. As for his own kitchen—
Well, the entire time he’d owned the house, it had only been a room, a place to eat cold leftover pizza, grab a cup of coffee in the morning. Until Alex moved in.
Now there were two mugs in the sink. Two plates on the counter. Her purse and shoes dumped carelessly by the back door, a sweatshirt thrown over a chair. With Samantha, those same things had seemed like an intrusion into his space, his life. But with Alex, it all seemed…comfortable.
“So, how’s our girl?” Carolyn asked, placing two hot cups and cookies before them both. If Mack didn’t know better, he’d swear Alex’s grandmother was a mind reader.
“Alex?” Mack sipped at his coffee. “Just fine. She’s practically Bob Vila.”
Carolyn laughed. “You know Alex. When she puts her mind to something, she’s like a little worker bee.”
“That she is.” He selected a cookie, took a bite. Waited for Carolyn to get to the point, because he could sense one coming as easily as thunderclouds announced an impending storm.
“She told me you fixed her up with one of your friends.” Carolyn dunked her tea bag in her cup—up, down, up, down. “A really nice guy, from what Alex said.”
“Yeah. Nice guy.” Mack chomped off another bite of cookie. The second bite didn’t taste nearly as good as the first.
“Do I detect a little jealousy?”
“Me, no way.” He fiddled with the cookie. “I want Alex to be happy. If that means she’s with Steve…well, good.”
Carolyn studied him. “Uh-huh. Why don’t I believe you?”
“Grandma, Alex and I are friends. Always have been. You know that.”
“I know.” She removed the tea bag and put it on the saucer, then stirred a teaspoon of sugar into her cup. “But sometimes that comes at a cost to you.”
“Maybe in terms of lumber, but, hey, I have that covered. I get a discount at Home Depot.” He grinned.
Carolyn folded her hands, one on top of the other, and gave him that look that told him she knew him well. Too well. “Have you ever told Alex why you married Samantha?”
“Why would I want to bring that up? Samantha and I are divorced now. It’s all in the past.”
“Is it?”
“You should try these cookies, Grandma. They’re really good.” He took another bite, giving her a change-the-subject-please grin.
“She doesn’t know anythi
ng, does she? Nothing about what happened during your marriage? Why you got divorced? You’ve never said a word.”
“I picked these up at a new bakery,” Mack said, reaching for a third Windmill, “over in the Back Bay that—”
“Mack.” Carolyn laid a hand on his. “Tell her.”
“Tell Alex what? That I ran off to Vegas and eloped with a woman and ruined her life?”
“And why did you do that?”
Mack looked away. Studied the sunflowers in the wallpaper. “Thought I was in love,” he grumbled.
“Not with Samantha.”
“Are you going to eat those cookies?” Mack asked. “Because I’ll eat them all before you know it, then I’ll leave here feeling bad, because I devoured your gift.”
“You are the most exasperating person to have a conversation with.” Carolyn selected a cookie, dunked it in her tea, then took a bite of the softened cinnamon-and almond-flavored treat.
“Maybe because this is a conversation I don’t want to have.” He drew in a breath, let it out. “Alex is looking for something permanent. And if there’s one thing my marriage taught me, it’s that I have all the sticking power of a cobweb.”
“Bullshit.”
“Grandma!”
“I call it like I see it, Mack, and you’re obviously not seeing what I’m seeing. You’re missing the tree because you’re too damn busy avoiding the whole forest.”
He chuckled. “Are you saying marriage is a forest?”
“The best and most beautiful you’ll ever find. I enjoyed nearly fifty years with my Howard before he passed away, God rest his soul.” She took a sip of tea, then put the cup back in the saucer, the china chattering together as if joining in the conversation. “Getting married was the most terrifying thing I ever did, but also the most wonderful, believe me. Because I married my best friend.”
“You got lucky.”
“You could, too.”
“Or I could screw up everything with the woman I…” His voice trailed off.